


ennui

by la_topolina



Series: The Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Continuity [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/F, F/M, Hogwarts Astronomy Tower, Mutual Pining, Quidditch, Rare Pairings, Romance, Star-crossed, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24344431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_topolina/pseuds/la_topolina
Summary: With a beautiful wife and an adoring son, Abraxas Malfoy has everything a man could want...except for the woman he really loves.How far is he willing to go to get her?
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Abraxas Malfoy's Wife, Abraxas Malfoy/Minerva McGonagall, Augusta Longbottom/Mr Longbottom Sr, Eileen Prince/Tobias Snape, Euphemia Potter/Fleamont Potter, Pomona Sprout/Original Female Character
Series: The Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Continuity [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745833
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	ennui

It was the perfect day for a Quidditch match.

The crisp October morning air was warming to a pleasant sweetness. The mild breeze was cooperatively nudging the Quaffle away from the Slytherin hoops. The sun was conspiring both to set off the autumnal foliage to brilliant advantage—and to compromise Augusta Longbottom’s vision as she struggled to protect the Gryffindor side from being slaughtered. Without Minerva’s hand to steady them, the motley pride of lion alumni showed their severe lack of discipline; while Slytherin flew with martial unity, scoring thirteen goals within the first half hour of play.

Godfery Weasley cut violently across the pitch, his face as red as his unfortunate hair, his eyes bulging as he hurled the Quaffle at the largest hoop. Abraxas darted silently towards it, and plucked it out of the air just before it reached its mark. He allowed the momentum of the object to swing him around the goalpost, and then he was soaring in a decadent attack, leaving the hoops completely unattended. He dimly marked the groans and cheers from the stands, and the swearing from the Gryffindor team as he wove in and out of the path of the Bludgers and Beaters. Orion and Cygnus Black were there to fight that battle for him, and in another moment Ignatius Prewett, the fierce Slytherin Chaser, was ready to send the Quaffle home. Abraxas let the ball roll off his fingers, and Ignatius caught it, deftly completing the goal while Abraxas lazily cruised back to his post as Keeper.

He’d never been more bored in his life.

“Arcturus, where is that damned snitch?” he drawled as the nervous Seeker hovered near the hoops, apparently doing nothing besides getting in the way.

“Wish I knew, Abraxas,” he replied, his face screwed up unpleasantly as he fruitlessly scanned the sky. “Augusta’s going to be in a right snit though.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but marrying a Gryffindor was not one of your wiser decisions.”

Arcturus laughed heartily at that. “Some of us prefer a woman of flesh and blood. Ah! There the bugger is!”

At first Abraxas suspected the coward of retreating after making such a blatant jab at his own wife (for anyone who knew Hera believed that butter would not melt in her mouth) but then Euphemia Potter was rocketing upwards after Arcturus, and there was a tangle of Beaters and Chasers crashing together in pursuit of a final goal. Godfery and Ignatius tumbled nearly to the ground as they fought over possession of the Quaffle, but all of this effort was nullified as Euphemia's nimble fingers closed around the elusive snitch, and the entire morning turned to ash.

“Better luck next year!” crowed Augusta as she flew up to meet her rejoicing teammates in the middle of the pitch (as though she’d not done everything in her power to lose the match for her fellows). 

The Slytherin team departed the field gracefully, outwardly stoic in their defeat, and Abraxas was the first to emerge from the locker room, freshly robed and completely exhausted. He picked his way through the crowd still lingering in the stands in a half-hearted search for his wife, nodding politely to well wishers and critics alike. As he caught sight of Hera’s perfectly turned curls, a small blond tornado cut through the stands to hurl himself into Abraxas’s arms, nearly taking him out at the knees. 

“You’re the best Quidditch player, Father,” Lucius proclaimed loudly.

This undiscerning observation warmed even Abraxas’s jaded heart, and he scooped his son up into his arms. A beautiful child, somewhat small compared to the other five-year-olds, and somewhat more frail than Abraxas would have liked, Lucius was still a son to be proud of; and one he surely did not deserve.

“Thank you, Lucius. Shall we collect mother and take her in to luncheon?” Abraxas asked.

Lucius stuck out his tongue in displeasure. “Maybe. She’s been talking and talking all morning and she won’t stop.”

“You must be patient with Mother,” Abraxas chided. “When she sees her friends, she will talk. It’s only natural.” 

“But they don’t talk about anything interesting!” Lucius complained.

“However true that may be, I hope you did not say so to her.”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

He set Lucius down, but kept hold of the child’s hand. Hera was no longer anywhere to be seen, and he scanned the remaining crowd impatiently for her. The sunlight that had been gentle a hour before was now beating down on him without pity, and he longed for water, shade, and refreshment in that order. 

The mass of people parted, and he saw at the end of the row a woman in dowdy tartan robes that were far too matronly for a maiden of her youthful years. Her fiery curls were tamed today, ruthlessly imprisoned by a pair of unfashionable hairpins and an equally miserable pointed hat. But when Minerva McGonagall’s eyes met his, they drew him to her the way the moon draws the tide—and just as hopelessly.

He actually took a step towards her before she looked away and escaped down the stairs. It had been years since they’d spoken plainly to each other; each scrupulously limiting their contact to a few polite and superficial exchanges when they could not reasonably avoid meeting. At least, Abraxas was scrupulous in his abstention. For all he knew she’d forgotten that New Year’s Eve when she’d slept all night in his arms, and he’d been too honorably foolish to take the further delights she’d recklessly offered him. 

“Do you see her?” asked Lucius, hopping up and down in an attempt to find his mother.

“No. Perhaps she’s gone inside already. Let’s see if we can catch her.”

He restrained himself to his son’s pace as they progressed from the Quidditch pitch to the Great Hall, listening to the boy’s prattle with half-hearted attention. As they went, he did try to summon the will to put Minerva from his mind; but it was a paltry attempt at best.

*****

The rest of the day was downhill from there. Before being allowed to eat their luncheon, they’d been subjected to a spellwork demonstration by some of the current top students, along with a mystifying speech by Headmaster Dumbledore. His wife ignored him for the whole of the meal (which was, in itself, fine by him) and afterwards he’d had to exert himself to deliver a speech on behalf of the Board of Governors, and appear politely interested while the usual dull round of honors and awards were distributed to all the usual dull people. When he was finally released from these onerous duties, his desire for repose was thwarted by Hera flitting off with her lady friends to fritter away the time until tea, thereby saddling him with Lucius for the remainder of the afternoon. The boy’s hand was sweaty and sticky in his as they emerged onto the front lawn; and he longed for his own Manor, where he might have ordered Dobby to keep an eye on the child while he rested in the shade. Next year they would have to bring the elf with them.

“Look Father, there’s a ghost!” cried Lucius, waving excitedly to the Fat Friar, who returned the child’s greeting with a bow.

“Yes, Lucius, so there is. So you’ve said the last dozen times he’s come round,” Abraxas said wearily. 

“And there’s another one! And another!” Lucius was an easily amused child. “ _Three little ghostesses, sitting on postesses, eating buttered toastesses…”_

This had to stop. If there was anything Abraxas found more tedious than children’s prattle, it was children’s rhymes. 

“Lucius, I see some children,” he interrupted. “Run along and introduce yourself. I’ll be right behind you.”

The boy gave him a trepidatious look and then turned to study the herd of wrestling children as though weighing out his options.

“Go on now,” Abraxas ordered. “There’s a good lad.”

Lucius still seemed uncertain, but he squared his little shoulders and marched over the green towards the tangled group. He stood on the periphery of it, studying the game, and once he had the rhythm of it, he thrust himself into the center, and soon was running and laughing with the others. Abraxas sat heavily on a bench nearby, bored but pleased to see his son engaged for once in healthy play. The children Hera deemed fit companions for the Malfoy heir were few, and the tidy games that she allowed him to play were stifling. This was the way that Abraxas felt children should play—with laughter and dirt, and a touch of chaos. He never troubled himself to argue the point with Hera—a placid home life was worth more to him than his son’s entertainment. But when he could allow the child some healthy play without her around to scold him, he did; for he could always point out to her that it was her fault for leaving the boy with him in the first place.

Having perfected the art of napping while sitting fully upright, he’d almost managed to doze off when Fleamont Potter’s unwelcome voice and more unwelcome person took up the cause of ruining whatever infinitesimal pleasure remained to the afternoon.

“Abraxas! Good show on the pitch today. Pity Arcturus wasn’t up to snuff.” Fleamont sat next to Abraxas, who privately thought that the man took an especial joy in inserting himself where he wasn’t wanted.

“How kind of you to say so,” Abraxas replied civilly. He hated Potter, and he knew that the less he reacted to the other man’s barbs, the angrier Fleamont would become. “My congratulations to your excellent wife. And to Mrs Longbottom, of course.”

Fleamont gave a mirthless laugh. “I was actually wondering if Orion was up to his old tricks, she played so badly.”

Abraxas arched an eyebrow. “Of course he was. We planned the whole thing. _Confundi_ all around.”

“Sarcasm never suited you, m’boy.”

“Come now, Potter, I’m far too old to be anyone’s boy. Never mind that I’ve a keen enough sense of self preservation to wish to avoid rousing your wife’s jealousy. I hear she bites when provoked.”

“Not everyone wants to lie down with the Ice Queen.”

“And not everyone wants to dine with a savage.” Fleamont started to sputter and Abraxas smiled blandly. “Remind me, is it a son you and Euphemia have bred?”

“It is,” Fleamont replied, his anger barely contained.

“The one with the wild hair, yes?”

“Takes after his mother. He’s only two, but you can see he’s almost as tall as your Lucius.”

Abraxas had no patience for parents who took unreasonable pride in their children accomplishing unremarkable feats. Who cared how tall a toddler was? They all grew eventually.

“So he is.”

“Don’t fuss it, Malfoy, he’ll grow.”

“I’m sure.”

As they watched, young Master Potter took it into his head to push a pale, scrawny boy with stringy black hair to the ground. The smaller boy struggled to get to his feet, but every time he tried, James pushed him back down. Soon the child was crying, and Lucius stepped between them with his arms crossed, glaring at James until he lost interest and wandered away. Lucius turned and helped the smaller boy to his feet, and the two of them were soon running off with the rest of the group.

“Now, Malfoy, I wanted to talk to you about the Board…” Fleamont began, but Abraxas absolutely refused to talk business today.

“Potter, isn’t your son getting awfully close to the lake?” he observed mildly.

Fleamont wavered, but as he glanced across the green it was undeniable that James was within inches of falling into the water. 

“James, come back!” he called, but James paid him no attention. “Another time, Abraxas. James!”

Fleamont darted to save his son from himself, and Abraxas returned to his intended doze. The afternoon was waning fast, and the sun was once again agreeable rather than smoldering. As his eyes drifted closed, the firm step that haunted his dreams startled him to wakefulness. He caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, a mere flash of red hair and plaid robes, before she disappeared into the school. Lucius was immersed in his games with the other children, covered in dirt and obviously thrilled to be so. There was a small group of adults lounging nearby, among them Eileen Prince (or whatever her married name was). He recalled that she was a sturdy girl, and surely one who could be trusted to mind the children for a quarter of an hour.

Indolent as Abraxas was, he knew how to recognize a rare opportunity when it appeared, and he abandoned his son on the lawn, determined to claim it.

*****

She led him on a merry chase up the spiraling staircases, but she did not flee so fast as to escape him completely. He heard her hesitate at the corridor where she might have retreated to Gryffindor Tower and total safety, but her step continued upwards towards the Astronomy Tower and heaven. He caught her at last on the ramparts, where she stood looking out over the castle grounds, regal as a queen. The memories of the last time they’d been this alone together coiled in his brain and pitched his nervous system into hyperawareness; but he kept his pace measured as he passed beneath the celestial models and automata that decorated his favorite classroom. It wouldn’t do to startle her.

“On a clear day you can see the ocean,” she said when he met her on the parapet. “It must be hazier than it seems.”

“What a pity. We won’t be able to see Draco or Cygnus tonight.” He replied.

“I can go many a night without seeing Cygnus.” She wasn’t looking at him yet, but she was plainly fighting a smile.

“Couldn’t we all?” He let his hand rest on the stone near hers, scrupulously not touching, but close enough that he could feel her warmth. “Astronomy wasn’t the same without you.”

“Some of us have our living to earn, and couldn’t waste N.E.W.T.s on impractical subjects.”

He shrugged. “So I’m told. However, I find that when I am at my lowest, an hour of watching the stars and calling them by their names can be the difference between my continuing another day in this sphere or quitting it entirely.”

Her brow furrowed, but still she refused to look. “Is your life so horrible?”

“No. It is routine, which is worse. An endless round of pointless playacting, nothing more. Wasn’t there a Muggle playwright who commented on such a thing?”

“ _Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,_ ” she quoted. “I’m surprised you remembered that much, it being a Muggle creation.”

“That’s not fair, Minerva. I think you’ll recall that I was willing to appreciate Muggle things when they were useful. Why, I’ve spent the last five years redoing the grounds at the Manor according to Professor Chanterelle’s directives, which were the marriage of Muggle agrarian techniques with Herbology. The result has been more fruitful than I’d dared hope. You should come and see it.”

“I’m sure Hera would be thrilled,” she said flatly.

“Hera is not always at home.” 

She turned to him all at once, her blue eyes flashing and her face flushed pink. “I’m not your plaything.”

He returned her fury with a bland gaze and took a calculated risk. “I never said you were. I merely offered you an invitation I thought might be to your amusement. My apologies if I was mistaken. I will leave you to your solitude.”

“Wait,” she said before he’d even taken the first step to depart. “You don’t have to go.”

“I would rather stay, all things being equal,” he replied.

She came towards him hesitantly, not at all like the huntress she’d been on the night that was burned in his memory the way he hoped it was burned in hers. But it was enough to make his dreary heart quicken, and his throat clench with the effort of maintaining an aloof façade.

“Why aren’t you happy, Abraxas?” she asked, her intelligent eyes wide and innocent as they looked up at him.

“When have I ever been happy?” He wasn’t trying to win her pity; he was simply struggling to manage his thoughts as he caught the scent of heather and honey that was singularly her.

Sympathy gave way to disbelief on her countenance. “Surely you must be. With a wife as beautiful as Hera at your side, and a son like Lucius, what could possibly be missing?”

He raised his eyebrows, mocking her gently. “Hera is beautiful. Unfortunately it is that perfect sort of beauty that is better for viewing than living with.”

“I doubt that. You married her and got her with child so quickly one wonders which order the events took place.”

“I didn’t realize you sullied yourself with such base ruminations. You’re so above all the rest of us in your tower. Or is your Gryffindor pride pricked? I offered myself to you, and you refused to have me. Why should you be angry if Hera was glad to take your leavings?”

Five years ago she would have blistered his ears for saying such things to her, but now she schooled her tongue with a mastery that he couldn’t help but admire. If anything, this controlled Minerva attracted him even more powerfully, for he knew that the passion that lay beneath the calm.

“I don’t think this is a good time to discuss such things,” she said at last.

“As you say,” he replied in a tone that was both tease and challenge. “We can discuss whatever you like.”

“I don’t have anything left to say to you. Good afternoon, Abraxas.”

The drama of her exit was significantly undercut by the fact that her feet were, for some reason, rooted to the floor. She swayed towards him as she attempted to disengage them from the stones, and the backwards as she attempted to escape his touch. He caught her arm under the elbow to keep her from falling flat on her backside (not that she appreciated this gentlemanly action).

“Let go of me!” she spat. “What did you do?”

“Merely tried to keep you from falling over. Pardon me for troubling you with my concern,” he laughed, incredulous at her ire.

“No, not that. I mean, what did you do to my feet? I can’t move them.”

They cast around for the cause of her distress, and found it stuck to the underside of a pert little hunky punk. A little bunch of faded mistletoe was peeking out from the carved claws of the creature’s toes, and Abraxas discovered upon trial that he could not move his feet either.

“A bit early for Christmas, don’t you agree?” he asked flippantly; making light of a situation that had become suddenly too serious for his liking.

“Someone must have missed it in the cleaning,” she replied, exasperated.

The shadows around them had lengthened as the night began to roll in; bringing with it the sort of daring that daylight often smothered.

“What is it that you don’t have to say to me?” he asked. “Or are you afraid of the answer?”

“I’m not afraid of anything, least of all you,” she shot back.

“No? They why is it that you’ve avoided me? I believe this is the first time we’ve spoken more than a sentence together in years.”

Her glare held all the old fire. “You’re the one who started it! How dare you blame me?”

“What are you talking about?” He searched his memory for the source of her slight. “Ah, you mean the wedding and the christening.”

“He remembers at last!” she laughed bitterly. “What was I supposed to think when you so carefully invited all of your schoolmates except for me?”

He frowned at her. “I had thought that you would not want to be party to another boring round of pureblood snobbery. Especially one centering on Hera Bulstrode.”

“A likely story. I think you were just relieved I’d had the good sense to refuse you when I did and leave you to your carefully planned life. What would you have done if I’d accepted your offer and you’d cast Hera aside?”

What feeble will he had left to combat temptation had been worn away over the last half hour, and he gleefully plunged headlong into perdition. He needed to know if she still felt some spark that had once passed between them, even if it meant another five years before she deigned to speak to him again. With infinite patience, he bent his head towards hers, giving her an eternity to slap or hex him; but she did neither. Her breathing caught, and her eyes fell half closed as her hands fisted themselves on the front of his robes. He allowed his lips to curve into a feral smile of anticipation, and his hands to slide around her slim waist and up the curve of her back.

“I’ve thought of nothing else every day since the morning you walked away,” he whispered in her ear.

She sighed and leaned into him as his lips finally found the warm flesh of her throat. He explored it at leisure, coaxing her sigh into a gasp, and then a throaty moan. It was an intoxicating magic to feel her pulse racing beneath his teasing mouth, and when he pulled back to admire his handiwork, her lips were parted and panting. He let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan as he bent to take her properly—only to have her slip away, the spell irrevocably broken.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” she said in quavering voice. “And you should try not even to think them. Good night, Abraxas.”

She hurried out of the tower without waiting for his response, and he did not try to stop her. He had no doubt that she would retreat to the Gryffindor fortress and that he’d not see her again tonight. With a vicious slash, he hexed down the hapless mistletoe, setting it ablaze in a cold fury. When it had burnt to ash at his feet, he scooped up the remains and scattered them over the edge of the parapet.

If only he could immolate his own, useless passion along with them.

*****

The torches outside the school were lit by the time he returned to the front lawn in search of his heir. The exchange with Minerva had sapped him of all his remaining strength, and he kept his head bowed to avoid the unbearable necessity of speaking to anyone. He’d been a fool to chase her now—and an even larger fool for victoriously fighting the temptation to take her years ago when she might not have objected. But his anemic sense of honor had been overly enthusiastic that night out of his deep respect for the Scottish witch. He did not add to his current torment with philosophical questions as to why he was evidently willing to take her _now_ , for he did not possess the energy to cross-examine his own motives.

As he stood on the steps overlooking the lawn, Hera came into view. She was thick as thieves with the dark beauty Pomona Sprout, and though his wife’s hair was perfectly arranged, her color was high enough for him to tell that she’d enjoyed her tryst immensely. Pomona was not her usual type of paramour—too innocent and inconveniently forthright—but perhaps even his predictable Hera desired a change of pace from time to time. She caught him staring at her and returned his gaze boldly; although she did drop Pomona’s arm. Pomona had the grace to look ashamed, and faded away with the other departing former students, and he went down reluctantly to his wife.

“Where have you been, Abraxas?” Hera demanded. “And our son nowhere in sight. Have you lost him?”

“Perhaps it’s best you do not ask me such questions,” he replied. “Then I will not be tempted to put them to you.”

She glared at him icily. “Well don’t just stand there. Help me find him.”

“There’s no call for hostility, Hera. I left him with Eileen and her husband. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Eileen? You mean the Slytherin girl who married a Muggle?”

Had she? “I’m sure I have no idea who she married.”

“Honestly, Abraxas, and you call yourself the boy’s father. Lucius!”

Their son chose this moment to appear, hand in hand with the little boy with the stringy hair. The two of them were grinning like fools and covered from head to toe in dirt. Lucius held a posy of weeds in his fist, and when he caught sight of his parents he dragged his new playfellow over to meet them.

“Lucius! Whatever happened to you?” Hera cried.

“Mother, this is Sev’rus, and we’re _best_ friends now,” Lucius said proudly, thrusting the weeds into her dainty hands. “And these are for you!”

She dropped the offering as though it had bitten her. “I see,” she said impatiently. “And where are this little boy’s parents? I’m sure they must be wanting to take him home.”

Eileen came running after her son, and a man dressed in a Muggle suit ambled after her. 

“I’m so sorry Hera,” she said breathlessly when she caught up to them. “I hope Severus wasn’t bothering you. Severus, say good-bye to Lucius now.”

“Eileen, is this _your_ son?” Hera’s voice was dangerously shrill, and Abraxas suspected she’d found an acceptable whipping post.

Eileen seemed to sense it too, and she accepted the blows with the resignation of the defeated. “Yes. Severus, please hello to Mrs Malfoy.”

“Hello, Mrs Malfoy,” Severus said, enunciating each syllable with painstaking care.

“I didn’t realize you were even married yet,” Hera said sweetly, ignoring the child.

“I am. This is my husband, Tobias Snape. Tobias, Hera and Abraxas Malfoy.”

Tobias was an unhandsome man with an excess of oily charm. He plunged into the fray without realizing the danger, offering Hera his hand to shake in the Muggle fashion.

“Nice to meet you Mrs Malfoy. A right fine boy you have here, a real prince. We’d love to see more of him at your convenience. He and Sev hit it off like two peas.”

“I don’t think that is in anyone’s best interest,” Hera said coldly, eyeing his hand like a piece of dirty linen until he awkwardly withdrew it to his side. “Lucius, say good-bye.”

“But I don’t want to. I want to go home with Sev’rus.” Lucius was painfully close to throwing an unbecoming tantrum.

“This is _your_ fault,” Hera hissed to Abraxas. “ _You_ deal with it.”

She glided away towards the thestral-drawn carriage waiting to take them home, leaving him to reap discord she’d sown. Eileen’s husband was obviously fuming at being brushed aside, and her son was clinging to the skirts of her robe like a wraith. For a moment Abraxas met Eileen’s eye, and the pity he felt for her he saw reflected in her own gaze back to him.

“Mr Snape, it’s a pleasure to meet you, and I thank you for minding my son. I only hope he did not put you to much trouble,” Abraxas said, extending his hand and suffering the other man to shake it.

“Not at all, Mr Malfoy, not at all. Our pleasure entirely,” Tobias said, nearly simpering.

“Say good-bye now Lucius,” Abraxas ordered. “We mustn’t keep Mother waiting.”

“But Father,” Lucius began.

“Now, Lucius.”

His son knew when he was beaten, and he muttered a glum farewell as he took his father’s hand. The boy lagged behind, dragging on Abraxas’s arm like a leaden weight, until at last he picked the child up and carried him the rest of the way to the carriage. Hera was inside, waiting for them, and they barely had time to climb in next to her before she started a tirade about “common children” and “Muggle filth.”

Abraxas stared past her, gazing out the window to the night beyond. The clouds had burned away, and every star was gloriously visible, waiting to be named. But he didn’t bother either to curb his wife’s venomous words, or to trace the constellations overhead.

It simply wasn’t worth the effort.

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to Melanie/RonsGirlFriday for letting me borrow Godfery Weasley—Bilius and Arthur’s older brother!
> 
> Minerva is of course quoting Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
> 
> This story was written for three challenges. In the hot mess/beautiful disaster challenge, we were asked to write a story about a character who doesn't quite have it altogether. For the trapped together challenge we were asked to write about a pair of characters being stuck together somewhere. For the trope stew challenge, we were given a randomly selected stew of tropes to use in our story. Mine were:
> 
> 1\. beauty is never tarnished (it's incredibly improbable that you'd be able to do all of that without having a single hair be out of place, but i guess that's the world we're living in.)
> 
> 2\. attack! attack! attack! (is this a fight you can win? no. it's truly not. are you going to keep trying? well, you're in denial, so yes.)
> 
> 3\. you didn't ask (i didn't keep anything from you, you just never asked.)
> 
> 4\. star-crossed lovers (Our story isn't fated to be according to the stars, but honestly, fuck the stars.)
> 
> 5\. achey scars (you'd think it would stop hurting eventually, but nope.)


End file.
